


For Eyes to See that Can

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a long, lonely night at Rivendell, Sam is restless until magic comes to his aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Eyes to See that Can

Sam lay awake, his eyes drifting over the carved ceiling, finding forms in the shadows; flowers, beasts and birds rendered so strangely they merged with the curling shapes of arch and filigree. It was true that this place turned the ordinary into the artful and bewildering. Never before had Sam heard poetry that wove such images into his mind, nor had he sat in the company of folk who were so fair and bright it pained him to look them in the eye. Never had he tasted food that fell to such sweetness in his mouth or wine that ran so rich and dark. It was easy to see why simple folk thought the fair ones perilous, an hour spent in the Hall of Fire and Sam was already seeing deeper into pictures than he ever thought possible. 

Sitting up in bed, he watched the moonlight reflecting off the white of a horse’s eye. White, reflecting blue. Just like his master’s as he sat in the shadow beyond the ring of fire, his knees drawn up beneath him, seemingly asleep, as the great tales unfolded in deep rhythms. He looked so changed, Sam couldn’t draw his eyes away; for his skin seemed to hold within it an iridescence that had not been there before, as if some restless starlight was burning in his veins with a cold fire, perhaps some remnant of that fearful place he had slipped into during those black hours. Sam wondered if his skin would feel cold to the touch, and the dull tang of metal filled his mouth even as he sipped from the warm cup of wine. He wished he were not sitting so far away, right across the other side of the room alongside Merry and Pippin, who had both fallen asleep almost at once, their chair a tangle of heads and feet. Letting himself drift away with the sweeping song that rose and fell like a great wave, Sam allowed himself to dream yet never drew his eyes away. 

When at last Frodo rose to his feet, he stumbled a little with weariness, and Sam instinctively jumped to attention, sitting up sharp, but there had been no need, for Bilbo was at his side at once, supporting him and gently drawing him away.

Frodo looked tired as he followed his Uncle down the lamp-lit passage and a pain stirred in Sam’s heart as he watched him turn out of sight. He longed to follow, but the music and the fire would not release him. 

When at last it eased its hold, it was dark and the lamps had died down to smoking brands and it was too late now to help Frodo to his bed. Bilbo had seen to everything; he was family after all, and Frodo loved him.

The mane of the wild horse spilled over the beam in rippling waves of carved oak, rendered so fine they seemed to move with the cool breeze slipping through the open window, making the curtains of his bed shiver restlessly. What was that - that long spur? Was it some kind of spear embedded in the animal’s skull? Sam wondered for a moment if it was the beginning of another form, but saw that it was carved in the same sweeping curve, as much a part of the creature as the hooves and the mane and the sorrowful eyes. Sitting up on his haunches, he peered up into the shadows and reaching up, traced the pattern of the horn in the air. 

The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and spilled over the bedclothes in a pale arc. Turning to the window, Sam felt the white shadow on his skin and smelled the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine on the air. Still warm, it drew him to the window and out onto the balcony that curled around the outer wall like a stole. For many weeks he had longed to sleep in a soft bed and feel the protection of a solid roof above his head, and yet now he was restless and couldn’t sleep, looking out over the valley longingly. 

Lights were still flickering from the trees and snatches of music drifted from where the river ran black and silver in the starlight. Rivendell never slept, music idled in all night, weaving into his dreams. Sam wondered if it was integral to this place, that should the music be allowed to fade, then all of the magic of the elves would fade with it and the great halls crumble. 

Sighing, Sam leaned against the smooth wooden rail, and opened his heart to the night. He could remember the exact moment he knew the truth. It was in the cool grass of the forest glade where he lay curled with the sound of voices and music still rising and falling, even as darkness fell. Although he had wanted to stay awake; to cling to every word, every snatch of song or story, each easy laugh that tumbled from his master’s lips, yet still, the call to sleep was so strong it pulled him under, like a vanquishing wave. It was too wonderful and too strange. And as he drifted down, thoughts dispersing, he thought to himself, _so this is why I followed him._

That thought had journeyed with him, packed up with his saucepans and his spoons and no matter how hard he cursed himself for his foolishness, still with each passing day the feeling grew until he could no longer doubt its nature or question his own judgement. With each fond glance and encouraging smile, the ache sharpened until he was never content unless his eyes were fixed upon the back of his master’s green coat. Sometimes the feeling grew so great he would blink back tears, rubbing his eyes across his sleeve in irritation, like a sullen child. Reminding himself of the seriousness of their situation, he tried to push this foolishness to the back of his mind, but still, whenever Frodo failed to address him or laughed privately with Merry or Pippin, a heavy sadness would oppress him. Tutored by years of attentiveness and deference, when the pouting of a lip would provoke the sharp edge of the Gaffer’s tongue, Sam knew how to keep his feelings well hid and he would train his lips to smile and set himself to work over some small and concentrated task. 

Sometimes Frodo would fall back and choose to walk by Sam’s side and in these moments it was just as terrible a burden to hide his joy as it was to stifle sorrow. Occasionally, wonderfully, it seemed to Sam that Frodo would look at him with such a bright affection in his eyes, it could almost be mistaken for more, but with a yearning heart, Sam would stubbornly turn his thoughts instead, to the road ahead and focusing his eyes on the sky, bite at his lip as if he might stop the feelings from tumbling from his mouth. 

After the terrible wounding and the flight, all thoughts of his own desires fled from his mind as worry overtook all else and for long days and nights he sat and stared so long into his master’s face it seemed the ghost of that image would haunt him all his life. It was a terrible grief and a great privilege to hold his hand and when at last he found his master had woken during that one brief hour he had chosen to take his rest, the disappointment that he had not been the one to greet him was almost more than he could bear. Bilbo had sent him away and now Bilbo was the one tending and seeing to Frodo’s needs and Sam had no more to do than sit and dwell on his own sorrows and sink deeper into them with every passing night. Often he would think of Frodo, lying in his chamber two doors down the passage and imagine himself creeping down in the dark to lay himself at his feet like a dog. He felt he would be happier there and sleep peacefully, lulled by the sound of his master’s breaths. 

Walking back into his own bedchamber, he shivered, it seemed so big and grand for his needs, and he often longed for the cosy comforts of Bagshot Row and his own narrow little bed with its patchwork quilt and straw mattress. He missed his work in the gardens and worried about whether the weeds had overtaken the flower borders or if the fruit trees were sheltered from the frost. He missed the silly talk of his sisters and the Gaffer sharing a pipe with him at the end of a long hard day. He wanted to ask Frodo if it might be time to be heading home. Although he had longed to see the elves all his life, now he was growing weary and restless, the days becoming almost burdensome to him, each dropping slowly and ponderously, like leaves from a tree. He wanted to get Frodo home and take care of him himself, cooking and cleaning and doing whatever was needed. Bag End must miss its master. 

Yet Frodo showed no inclination to go, hours he would sit and talk with Elrond and Bilbo and the other great elves, questioning and reciting and laughing until the shadows grew long over the terraces. He was looking better, the green tunic he wore brought the roses back into his cheeks, and the herb soap made his black curls glisten as bright as a jay’s feathers. Sometimes Sam would find himself gazing as if dumbstruck, just sitting idling, stringing grass together or weaving flowers like a maid, his fingers working absently while his mind was elsewhere. 

‘You will weary your eyes with watching, master Samwise,’ Elrond once said, catching him at it. ‘Your master will not weaken without the touch of your gaze.’

Sam had blushed at this, feeling idle and ashamed and had asked for occupation in the kitchens. He was set to work that day making herb bread and his hands worked gratefully at the task, enjoying the simple rhythms and the good scents and the pliable dough, cool under his hands. The elvish bakers were greatly impressed by his skill and often he was requested to go down to the kitchens to assist them. Sometimes Sam wondered if Frodo had suggested this small labour, to ease Sam’s boredom; or else put a stop to the moongazing, but he couldn’t be sure. 

The work helped but it couldn’t hold back his dreams. The longer he stayed here, the stronger these dreams became until he would wake in the night breathless, his heart racing, unable to discern whether or not he was still asleep. The feelings were so strong here it seemed they had grown out of all control. Sometimes he could almost imagine that his dream self might rise up out of the bed and glide down to Frodo’s room, slipping under the door and into his bed, voicing all that couldn’t be expressed. 

He laid his head against the panelled wall. A cool green withdrawing room stood between his and the room where his master lay sleeping and Sam wished he could fold back those walls that kept them apart. And he hadn’t even had said goodnight! He should have been the one to turn the covers back and wish him pleasant dreams, finding some excuse to linger just to be certain he was comfortable and at ease. Sam felt a sob rising in his throat and swallowed it down impatiently. Perhaps it wasn’t too late? He might go now and take a look, carry out his watch silently and privately. Oblivious in sleep, Frodo wouldn’t be aware of any intrusion and the passage outside his door would surely be empty at this hour? 

Lighting a candle, Sam made up his mind. With a racing heart, he slowly made his way down the vaulted passage, holding the light before him. The door to the withdrawing room was ajar and as he passed he saw in the uncurtained window his own anxious face, flooded by the blurred candlelight. 

Not wanting to disturb his master, Sam didn’t knock at the narrow door beyond, but put his hand to it and waited for a wave of excitement to pass, hot and daring as the cloudy after-effects of ale. In his distraction, he held the candle too close to the door and was forced to pull his hand away with a start. Telling himself to gather his wits, he turned the handle and slipped within. 

It was a large, high room, grander than his own, with dark stitched pictures covering three walls and on the other, a looming bookcase overburdened with leather-bound books. The bed stood against the far wall; carved of oak with four figures at each corner, like great, pale ghosts protecting the sleeper within. Sam thought it looked a terrifying place to sleep. Moving a step closer to the bed, Sam tried to discern the figure within, but without holding out the candle flame to illuminate the bedclothes and risk waking the occupant, there was little to see. All was in shadow, and the shadows rippled and swayed as if agitated by a breeze, although the night was warm and still. He had no choice but to go nearer, shielding the light with a cupped hand to soften it. Bending over the bed, baffled by the dark, Sam suddenly found his wrist gripped tight in a cold clasp and as he jumped, the candle guttered, spilling hot drips of wax over the bed. 

Sam must have cursed aloud, for Frodo exclaimed, starting back, his hand slipping free. 

‘Stars, sir, I’m sorry, I never meant to startle you!’

Frodo was breathing hard, the sheets wrapped around his knees as he hugged them to his chest like a small child woken from a night terror. ‘No, no, it’s not that.’

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and put a comforting hand over the bulge of Frodo’s knee. ‘What is it, sir? You look so pale – did you think I was a ghost?’ 

‘Look, Sam,’ Frodo inclined his head towards the wall to his right, one of those covered by the great stitched pictures. ‘Do you see it?’ 

Frodo’s voice sounded odd but not afraid, merely curious and dreamy as if he were half-asleep. Sam looked at the place but could see only shades of black and grey, with here and there a thread of silver running through it. 

‘I can’t see much, tell the truth. It all looks so drear and dark. Shall I light the candle?’

Frodo held out his hand, his eyes still on the wall, ‘No, don’t do that!’

Sam settled himself once more, looking at Frodo in baffled concern, wanting to stroke his hair and comfort him to sleep, hold him, lay him down…

‘Do you hear that sound – that singing?’ Frodo’s voice was a hoarse whisper. 

‘They’ve been singing all night I reckon,’ Sam replied. ‘Tell the truth, I don’t think they ever sleep!’

‘Not that – this is different. I’ve never heard this song before – it’s so pure sometimes it seems to slip out of my earshot and then its there again – more perfect and more sad – fragile, like it’s made of crystal and could shatter. You know how a good glass will whine if you run your finger around the rim? Do you remember how Bilbo showed us that? It’s almost like that, but not quite, not really…it’s like it’s coming out of the soul itself…and it’s beautiful but it hurts, it hurts to hear it.’

Sam’s heart sank - The Ring. It must be, nothing else could sound so perilously beautiful, so alluring to Frodo’s ear and yet so damaging. Sam wanted to cover Frodo’s ears, fill them with words, real things that would not hurt him but restore him to himself. He wanted so much and yet it seemed as impossible as ever and the realisation of this was enough to shatter his heart. 

Frodo winced. ‘You can’t hear that?’

‘No, no I can’t Mister Frodo. Perhaps you shouldn’t listen for it, but lie back and hope it drifts away with sleep. Come, let me settle your pillows…’ Sam crawled up the bed and moved the disordered pillows back, smoothing their embroidered borders. 

Frodo turned to watch and, feeling his gaze, Sam raised his head and saw that there was something new and bright in Frodo’s eyes as if a spark had been ignited there. 

When at last he spoke, his voice was gentle and soft, although the words shocked Sam so deeply; he felt them in his bones. ‘It’s you Sam.’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘Sam, I had no idea you were so unhappy.’

‘I’m not, Sir, not really,’ Sam stammered, fussing with the pillows, easing back the sheets, wondering how this awareness had come to Frodo so suddenly and what he himself had to do with the terrible, wonderful sound. 

Frodo inched closer on his knees, putting an arm about Sam’s shoulder and drawing him around so that they knelt face to face and Sam had no choice but to look into Frodo’s ink-dark searching eyes. 

‘I know you miss the Shire, Sam.’ Sam drew a shuddering breath. ‘But I hadn’t realised quite how deeply, not until now. I am so sorry to have taken you away, you must go back, the sooner the better, dear Sam…much as I would miss your companionship, I would happily let you go.’

A sharp stinging cry rose up in the darkness and this time Sam heard it too. It was like an echo of something inexpressible that was welling up inside himself. Frodo’s arms went about him. ‘No, I don’t…I don’t want to go…’ he stammered, alarmed and desperate all at once, longing to speak the words he had swallowed, whilst his body reeled with the sharp awareness of intimacy. 

Frodo sighed, holding Sam close enough to feel the shiver in him. ‘Oh Sam, you’ve done so much for me, more than was needful, you would not be deserting your duties, I promise you…’

‘My duties?’ Sam felt a flood of fire spilling through his veins as he realised still how far Frodo was from the truth. ‘It’s not duty, it’s not…I can’t…I can’t.’

‘What then, Sam, what is it?’ Frodo’s lips were close enough now to flutter words across the tip of Sam’s ear. 

Unable to bear it any longer, Sam threw back his head and looked boldly into Frodo’s puzzled face. ‘I can’t leave without you … I don’t want to!’ 

And yet Frodo went on, ‘But I am well enough now, Sam, you needn’t have any worries on my account… and I won’t send you alone, Merry or Pippin would be happy to go with you.’

Sam shook his head, almost groaning. ‘No, Mr Frodo, you don’t…you don’t understand…’ Sam’s eyes, as they sank deep into his master’s, begging understanding, were swimming with unshed tears. ‘I can’t leave you. I could never leave you, not even if an army of men drove me away with swords. If I were sent home now it would be like someone rooting up my heart and pulling it apart like those daises the lasses torment in the fields.’

As Sam spoke in halting sobs, Frodo was breathing very quickly, and his fingers were moving lightly, higher and higher until they were weaving in and out of the curls at the nape of Sam’s neck. ‘Oh Sam, I didn’t see…’

‘I didn’t want you to see,’ Sam whispered, jolts of pure heat and light rippling from the almost lazy caress of Frodo’s fingertips against the back of his neck. 

Frodo spoke tenderly to him as he held him, stroking and resting his head against Sam’s in comfort and reassurance. ‘Dear Sam, dear love, if only I had seen…’ 

Sam buried his head in soft thyme-scented curls and tried to even his breaths, his body trembling with desire, but his mind still uncertain. 

_It’s up to you now, Sam…_ he said to himself. _Ask, or else you’ll never know_ and into his ears came the last low notes of that haunted song and out of the corner of his eye, a ripple of white light, as if a horse was dancing, chasing its hooves over the bright water. When they emerged, the words were blunt and clumsy as a farmhand’s. ‘Can I kiss you?’

Frodo pulled back a little and smiled at Sam, considering him, or so it seemed, in an altered light, and admiring what he saw. ‘Yes,’ he nodded, his voice hesitant, almost shy. 

Sam shuffled closer, his hands trembling, as he felt for the sharp contours of Frodo’s face, cupping it in his palms, stroking back the hair that fell about his ears with his thumbs, delicately whispering a breath over parted lips, as Frodo’s eyes fluttered closed expectantly, and for a moment Sam just looked, looked long and hard and deliriously, and then sank down, kissing hard and deep as though dying of hunger or thirst, as if all life depended upon it. 

And when at last the kiss ended and their tongues and lips unravelled, Sam saw the look of need and wonder that had shaken his master’s composure to pieces. He shook his head, as if stunned. ‘Sam…’ he breathed and then, more awkwardly, ‘It’s been so long.’

Still feeling as if permission must be granted, Sam waited, feeling the pulse of his own blood in his ears and the urgent swell between his legs, thudding twice as fast. 

Frodo was biting his lip and Sam knew it was up to him to be bold. Settling down onto the pillows he had so carefully arranged and stretching out over the silken sheets, Sam held out his hand. 

Frodo crawled forwards, the silk slipping and rippling under his hands, his beautiful eyes as wide and nervous as a hunted hare. 

‘Come now,’ Sam soothed. ‘Come to me, let me have you.’

Frodo seemed to grow molten and soft at his words, spilling over Sam’s lap and wrapping his limbs about him. With Frodo’s arms wound about his neck he turned them over in the bed so that he lay atop him, straddling his hips and kissing his face, his throat, his neck, feeling how the cold skin warmed beneath his lips. Amazed by this, he pressed his open mouth to every smooth patch of skin he could reach and when all had been attended to, he loosened the ties at Frodo’s chest and exposed the damaged skin there and softly guided his lips over it, trying to erase the harm. Frodo took a sharp breath as Sam lingered in that place, but soon relaxed with a sigh as the warm sucking moved lower, Sam lifting the light tunic up above Frodo’s hips and kissing his stomach and thighs, legs, calves and feet. 

Frodo was moaning and whispering Sam’s name, letting out a warm, delicious laugh as Sam sucked on his toes, making his feet curl. Smiling, Sam moved back up, kiss by kiss, tasting salt sweat in the little dip between hip and thigh, and butterflies caught in the abdomen beating to escape. Frodo arched his back and Sam bent his head so his cheek brushed against Frodo’s shaft, surprisingly hot and yet soft as silk. Caressing it with his face, smearing damp arousal across his skin, Sam waited. Frodo bucked up, blundering against the edge of Sam’s mouth, his hand reached down, grasping. 

‘Steady, me dear,’ Sam murmured, his voice hoarse. ‘Shhh…’

‘No,’ Frodo demanded. ‘No…I want…’

‘What, love?’ Sam rubbed his cheek once more against the swollen shaft, up and down, up and down, like a cat against a wall. 

‘I want this, please!’ He sounded stronger and more forceful than Sam had heard him in many weeks and the delight in this was almost as great as the pleasure Sam felt as he took the heavy heat on his tongue and closed his lips around it. Although he had little knowledge of such things, Sam worked instinctively, responding to Frodo’s cries and the persuasion of his hands, guiding Sam up and down until his knees bent up and hooked around Sam’s back, shaking and tensing as liquid fire hit the back of Sam’s throat and he swallowed. 

With a deep sigh, Frodo’s legs fell limp and his arms slipped free of their grip and Sam looked up with a hazy smile as he saw Frodo relax back against the pillows. 

‘Come here, Sam,’ Frodo said. 

Sam moved into his embrace, resting his head on Frodo’s shoulder and curling an arm about his waist. Frodo looked happy, but tired, his hands stroking up and down the broad curve of Sam’s arm. 

‘Why did I never see you before? What was I looking at?’ he asked, incredulous. 

‘Well, there were plenty of distractions, you can’t be blamed for that.’

Frodo nodded, glancing down at the Ring and then shutting his eyes, taking a deep breath, before turning his head back towards Sam and pleasanter thoughts. 

‘Sorry,’ Sam groaned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m such a fool.’

‘No, no, don’t say that,’ Frodo rebuked. ‘You’re no fool. Not at all… if anything, it’s me that’s been the fool…if it hadn’t been for that tapestry…’

‘Tapestry?’ Sam frowned.

‘The picture there, Sam, the one to your right. Do you see it now?’ 

His eyes must have grown accustomed to the dark for now as he looked harder, he could see the picture was of a great forest, with birds and rabbits and flowers stitched on every tall tree and beneath them, a silver ribbon that was the river running and beside it, dancing along its banks, a shining pale unicorn. 

‘Do you see it dance?’ Frodo asked, leaning his chin on Sam’s chest as he peered to look. 

Sam shook his head.

‘It was dancing. I woke in the night and I could feel the movement of it between the threads and wondered if I was dreaming, but then the music came and I remembered.’

‘What did you remember?’ 

‘I remembered the story Elrond taught me about the Elf Princess and the White Horse of the River. She was grieving, her lover did not know how her heart yearned for him and she was in deep sorrow and then one night, before the seasons turned to winter, the Unicorn came and sat under her window, beside the running river and sang. The song it sang was the song of her heart and it was beautiful and terrible to hear. But her lover heard it and he came out onto his balcony and he looked out and saw her crying and knew at once the desires of her heart.’

‘Do you think it came for us? To help us?’ 

‘It comes to the pure of heart, Sam.’

‘Then it came for you, it must’ve, Mister Frodo, for there’s none with a heart so pure as yours!’

‘Ah, but there you’re wrong!’ Frodo smiled, unlacing Sam’s shirt and pressing a kiss to the hot skin beneath. Sam moaned loudly, feeling his desire insistent once again. 

‘How’s that?’ Sam gasped. 

‘You,’ Frodo mouthed, bending his head and fluttering long lashes against sensitive skin. _‘It's you.’_


End file.
